


Manners Maketh Man

by doomcake



Series: All the King's Men (Kingsman AU) [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen, Kingsman AU, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Violence, halp, oh my god what am I getting myself into, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Charlie’s fingers come up to the round pendant that he wears on a chain around his neck, feeling the raised edges of the etched fleur-de-lis in the middle of the familiar circle. It was a memento from when his father passed, his mother used to tell him bitterly. The number etched on the back would call in a favor, should he ever have need of it. She used to tell him that it was worthless, that he should just throw it away—but a part of him, the part that never got to know his father, couldn’t do it.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, have a Kingsman AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manners Maketh Man

**Author's Note:**

> I just saw Kingsman last night, and naturally, the first thought I had after the movie was MUSKETEERS AU, MUST HAVE IT. Usually, I just drag my feet and wait for someone else to write these things out, since a) I tend to prefer reading instead of writing these days, and b) I'm super slow when I do actually write. But this idea kept me up all hours of the night last night, so I dragged my butt out of bed early on a Saturday just so I could write in peace. (Doesn't happen much!) And here you go--4k of... well, something.
> 
> I apologize in advance, because this isn't edited or second-read at all, and I'm not terribly happy with the direction it took while I was writing it. It's also pretty Kingsman-heavy since it's an introduction, but future fics in this series will definitely reflect more on Musketeers territory. There aren't a whole lot of spoilers for the movie in this fic, since most of this information can be found in one of the trailers that currently exist, but in case you're worried about ruining your Kingsman experience... well. There's a back button and I'm sorry??
> 
> Feel free to drop me a line if you like this!

There’s a lone flickering lamp at the end of the alleyway, looming over a rusted chain link fence that separates a good beating from freedom. Charlie knows he probably took a wrong turn at some point to end up here, but he thinks that if he can just scale that fence, he might be able to get away. His breaths come in harsh pants, but from the sounds of angry shouts and furious footsteps thundering after him, he doesn’t have time to catch his breath.

A part of him originally thought this was worth it, but now that he’s on the cusp of being caught by his stepfather’s goonies after he’d blown their cover on a drug drop—well… he’s not so sure, now. Didier is going to be _furious_ , and Charlie can only hope that he can stay out of sight long enough for the man to get mostly over it.

Charlie’s halfway up the fence when a hand wraps around his ankle and tugs. Kicking wildly, he feels his heel connect with flesh and hears a pained curse. Before he can wrench himself free, a sharp pain lances up his calf, and he cries out.

“The more you fight us, Charlie, the worse it’ll be,” a familiar voice growls. “Don’t make me bring you home in pieces to your mum.”

Charlie doesn’t reply and focuses instead on shaking the grip on his ankle loose and pulling himself up and over the fence. Rolling himself over the top of his fence, he uses gravity to pull against the hand still gripping his ankle. More fingers tug at the hem of his jeans, but the grip is too loose and breaks easily. His leg shifts awkwardly, but ultimately the hand holding his ankle can’t keep a grip with Charlie’s full weight tugging the other way and also slips free.

Falling in a heap on the other side of the fence, Charlie painfully pulls himself to his feet, trying to ignore the warm, sticky feeling crawling down the back of his calf, and the way his leg shakes under his weight. He glances over his shoulder at the angry men shouting on the other side of the fence, and as they start to climb over to follow him, he turns and runs.

Zig-zagging through more backstreets, side streets, and alleyways, eventually he gets far enough ahead of them to duck around a shady corner without them noticing, and holds his breath as they storm past his hiding spot. Once he’s sure they’re out of sight again, he releases the breath he’d been holding, and turns to walk the opposite way down the street.

He doesn’t make it far before his leg folds underneath him, sending him crashing into the nearest passerby—who happens to be a gentleman with a well-groomed beard and mustache in a fine-tailored suit. Charlie blinks up and sees that the man is eyeing the pendant he always wears around his neck.

“Charles Castlemore?” the man asks incredulously, a frown creasing his forehead above glasses, bright green eyes flashing behind the lenses.

Charlie’s vision whites out, but he thinks he hears himself ask, “Who th’fuck’re you?” before his sight fades entirely.

♕

The second Charlie is aware enough to recall what he’d been doing before he passed out, he’s immediately on his guard. Sitting up suddenly, he groans as his leg twinges. “ _Fuck_ …”

“Easy there,” a woman’s voice greets him, making him jump. His eyes land on the owner of the voice, a young redheaded beauty with a bright smile. “You did quite a number on your leg.”

“Where the hell am I?” he asks, finally taking a moment to look around. He’s on a couch in a well-furnished room, leg propped up on a pile of pillows and wrapped from ankle to knee. It’s then that he realizes his shoes are missing and his jeans are split open from bottom hem to thigh. The back of his split pants leg is stained red-brown with drying blood.

“The back of my boss’ tailor shop,” she replies. “You’ve been out for a little over an hour.”

“Tailor shop?” Charlie says, wiggling his toes to make sure he can still feel his feet. He hisses when he tries to move his leg. It feels like one giant bruise wrapped around strained and aching muscles. The back of his calf feels uncomfortably warm and tight, and he rubs at it with a wince.

“Rene said it took seven stitches to close that cut on your calf. Like I said, you did a number,” the woman says.

Charlie’s eyes widen as he remembers the last thing the man in the suit said. Looking at the woman next to him, he reaches out and grabs her wrist. “He knew my name,” he says insistently. “Who is he?”

“Rene? He also works for my boss—hey, you really shouldn’t try standing, Charles—“

“It’s Charlie.”

“ _Charlie_. Look, I know you may be a little confused right now, but if you sit tight for just a little bit longer, you’ll get some answers.” She smiles sweetly at him. “Promise.”

There’s a large part of Charlie that isn’t buying this at all, but his gut instinct tells him that he can trust her. After all, he’s been here for over an hour, and they haven’t done anything to harm him—they treated his wounds, got him away from the street’s prying eyes, but the fact that they all seem familiar with his name is _so_ unsettling when he doesn’t know who the hell these people—this woman, the man in the suit, the tailor-boss-man—are.

“So you obviously know who I am, but I don’t think we’ve met before,” he says, cautiously.

“Oh! Of course. I’m Constance,” she says. “I’m Monsieur de Peyrer’s assistant.“

“And this Rene person—he was the one who brought me here?”

“No, Rene simply treated the wound on your leg while you were out,” Constance replies. “Olivier is the one who brought you here.”

“Olivier? How many people does a tailor shop usually employ?”

A door opens behind the couch Charlie’s laid up on, and he twists his head to see the man in the suit from before entering the room.

“Ah, I see you’re awake,” the man says, shutting the door behind him. “How is your leg?”

“Fine,” Charlie says shortly. “You Olivier?”

The man casts a raised eyebrow at Constance, who shrugs. “I am.”

“How did you know my name?”

Olivier responds with a question of his own. “That pendant you’re wearing—it’s from your father, isn’t it?”

Charlie’s fingers come up to the round pendant that he wears on a chain around his neck, feeling the raised edges of the etched fleur-de-lis in the middle of the familiar circle. It was a memento from when his father passed, his mother used to tell him bitterly. The number etched on the back would call in a favor, should he ever have need of it. She used to tell him that it was worthless, that he should just throw it away—but a part of him, the part that never got to know his father, couldn’t do it. Swallowing thickly, he nods.

“Did you know him?” Charlie asks, though he doesn’t think so—this man isn’t too much older than he is.

“Monsieur de Peyrer will want to speak with you,” is all Olivier says in reply, turning to leave the room.

“But you didn’t answer any of my questions—”

“All in good time,” Olivier says, the corner of his lips twitching up. “Constance, make sure he eats.” He closes the door behind him.

The second he’s gone, Charlie’s teeth grind in irritation. “Son of a bitch—“

“Charlie?”

“I don’t know what game you’re all trying to play with me here,” Charlie snaps at Constance, struggling to his feet. “but I’m not having any more of this shit. I’m going home.”

“But your leg—“

“Then call me a taxi, if you’re so damned worried.” Charlie finds his shoes next to the couch and angrily stuffs his feet into them, ignoring the sharp pain lancing up his injured leg at the abuse.

“Here, you should take one of these.” Constance holds out a prescription bottle of painkillers. “You should take it with food—at least let me get you something to eat before you go.”

Charlie contemplates just leaving anyway, but his stomach growls almost as fiercely as his leg throbs. He sighs.

“Fine, but then I’m going home.”

Constance’s bright smile makes his stomach do flip-flops.

♕

He should’ve left when he had the chance. Charlie groans as he wakes again from the same couch, not realizing that he’d fallen asleep after lunching. The painkillers must have been stronger than he anticipated; now, it’s dark outside.

“Ah, you’re awake again. How are you feeling?”

The voice comes from behind his head, so Charlie cranes his neck around to see another man sitting in the chair that Constance previously occupied. This man is also wearing a suit and a pair of glasses, mustache and beard shot through with grey but trimmed very neatly. By his bearing, Charlie guesses that this is the tailor shop’s owner.

Taking stock, Charlie realizes he’s actually feeling much better than before—still a little sore and achy, but livable. “I’ll survive,” he says. “Uh, look. I apologize for taking over your back room—“

“No apologies are needed, Charles.” Nobody calls him Charles except for his mother, when she’s really angry with him. Charlie opens his mouth to correct him, but thinks better of it. “I should be the one apologizing to you. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

Charlie snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

“But where are my manners? I should introduce myself—I am Jean-Armand Peyrer, owner of this fine establishment.” Jean-Armand gestures to the room.

“You knew my old man, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jean-Armand confirms. “Charles—what do you know about your father?”

“I didn’t know him, really,” Charlie says. “Died when I was young. Mum wouldn’t say what happened, but I can’t think it was anything good.” His fingers find their way back to the pendant around his neck. “All I have left of him is this pendant.”

“Your father was a great man,” Jean-Armand says. “He saved my life—and the lives of several other men, the day he died.”

Charlie looks up at that. “You were there when my father died?”

“I was. It was a difficult day.”

Throat suddenly dry, Charlie swallows. “What happened?”

Jean-Armand looks almost regretful, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you the details of that day.”

“Were you soldiers together?”

“Of a sort, but not quite.”

“Which means—“

Jean-Armand purses his lips, then says, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I really cannot tell you much beyond what I’ve already said.”

Charlie scowls. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

“It’s classified information,” Jean-Armand says by way of explanation. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t tell you much more.“

“Well, then.” Charlie pushes himself to his feet, glad to find that his injured leg isn’t going to collapse under him this time. “I suppose I don’t have anything more to discuss with you.”

“Charles—“

“Look, I appreciate what your employees did for me today, so thank you for that. But it’s late, and I really should be going.”

Jean-Armand sighs, but nods and stands, holding out a hand. “I’m glad to get to meet you in person, Charles. Take care of yourself.”

Charlie shakes his hand and limps his way out of the shop, having the strangest feeling that this wouldn’t be the last encounter he had with these tailors.

♕

“So you bumped into a man who happened to know your father and was there the day he died?” Alain asks incredulously. “Now that’s what I’d call a bizarre coincidence.”

Charlie takes a long drink out of the pint of beer in front of him. “Yeah, that’s what I mean by a weird day.”

“You sure you’re all right, though? Didier’s guys didn’t hurt you too bad?”

“Cut my leg pretty good, but nothing serious.” Charlie shrugs uncomfortably, holding his pint up closer to his face. “May have to lay low for a bit so Didier doesn’t take it out on Mum.”

Alain leans across the dingy pub table, lowering his voice. “You need to get that filth away from your mum, Charlie.”

“If only it were that easy, Alain. He’s got Mum wrapped around his disgusting fingers—it’s like she _knows_ he’s bad news, but she doesn’t care.”

“Or she’s afraid of leaving him.”

“Yeah, well, if I had it my way—“ Charlie cuts himself off as he sees who’s entering the bar. He counts four, but by the sound of the car outside, there’s at least another one or two waiting.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t little Charlie Bucket.” Charlie grits his teeth. This is the _last_ place he wants to meet up with these goons. “Where were you last night? Your little stunt cost Didier a lot of money.”

“The cops were sniffing around, Georges—it was bust up the group, or let you get caught,” Charlie lies. “You should be _thanking_ me.”

Georges slams a palm on the table, knocking over Alain’s mostly-empty glass. “You cocky little shit. Is this a fucking game to you? You’re lucky Didier’s bangin’ your mum, otherwise she’d be organizin’ a memorial for you today.”

“Yeah? I thought that was your plan last night—but looks like you’re not even good at killing off one punk kid,” Charlie snaps.

“ _Charlie_ —“ Alain hisses, but Charlie cuts him off with a quick look and shake of his head. He also heard the car outside turn off, and two more join in with Georges.

“You wanna go?”

“Hey! Take it outside, assholes,” the bartender calls from across the pub. “I don’t want to clean up your mess tonight, Georges.”

“Nah, I ain’t startin’ shit tonight. Just gotta remind this little asswipe of his place, is all,” Georges says, shoving Charlie’s shoulder. “You. Out. I don’t wanna look at your shitty mug while I’m enjoyin’ my pint. Go home to your mummy.”

Charlie grits his teeth and stands, ready to get in Georges’ face, but Alain’s hand on his arm has him pause. His leg still hurts, so instead he deliberately knocks into Georges on his way out of the pub, Alain following close behind.

“Those guys are such dicks,” Alain says, once they’re on the street. “You sure you’re alright? You’re limping—let me call a cab.”

“No need,” Charlie says. He holds up a set of keys and cracks a wicked grin. “I think we got ourselves a perfect ride.”

♕

Charlie wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he finally phoned in his favor. Yeah, he was up shit creek without a paddle—car jacking, apparently, was quite a lot worse than anything else he’d been caught for, and it was about to land him behind bars for a lot longer than he was comfortable with—but he hadn’t expected his release to be so _easy_. His interrogator simply walked by, unlocked the door, and gestured for him to leave. No further questions asked. No paperwork. _Nothing._

As he limped out of the police station, he couldn’t help but feel like it was all a little _too_ easy.

“You used your favor,” a voice behind him says. “Brilliant student, promising career in the marines, yet you dropped out and used your one favor to get out of a car-jacking charge.”

Charlie whips around at the voice, then curls his lip in annoyance once he sees who it is. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Is that really what you should say to the person who just orchestrated your release?” Olivier says, casually leaning up against the side of the police building, wearing yet another finely-tailored suit.

“You? Really? I thought you were just a tailor,” Charlie says.

“Oh? Is that what you really think?” Olivier replies. Charlie snorts, shaking his head. Standing to his full height, Olivier motions to a black cab sitting at the curb. “If you’ve got a few moments, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Sod off.” Charlie turns to leave.

“It’s about your father.”

He freezes. The tone of Olivier’s voice suggests that he’s going to get more out of him than he did Jean-Armand. There’s the part of him that’s lived in a shit-hole for far too long that has him wanting to tell the man off, but there’s that other part of him—the part that wishes he came from better, that _he_ was better—that has him wanting to take this Olivier up on his offer.

“So what, you want to have a heart-to-heart here outside the police station?” he asks.

Olivier’s lips quirk up in a half smile, and he motions at the cab again. “Drink?”

♕

“Jean-Armand didn’t tell you, but I was also there the night your father died,” Olivier says, staring into his pint. “He saved a lot of lives that day—mine included.”

Charlie shifts uneasily on the bar stool. It seems a lot of people owe a life-debt to his father, a man he hardly knew. “That’s what the old man was telling me, but that’s about _all_ he shared. All I know is that my father did something to earn him this medal,” Charlie tugs at the pendant around his neck, “but it’s top secret.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Olivier replies.

“Jean-Armand said you weren’t quite soldiers—what else would you be, then?” Charlie asks suddenly. “It doesn’t really make sense to me. What other org gives out medals of honor, if not the military?”

“Well, you see—“

“I thought I told you to stay clear o’ this pub, Charlie Bucket.”

Charlie looks up and groans—it’s Georges, along with five of his other buddies. Scrubbing his face with his hand, he shoots Olivier an apologetic look. “I don’t want trouble, Georges.”

“Yeah? You should’ve thought of that before you nicked my car.” Georges stands up next to their table, looming over Charlie’s head. “Didier didn’t like that you’ve been messing with us. You’re fair game now, dipshit.”

“Boys,” Olivier says suddenly, dragging Georges’ attention his way, “I’ve had a rather exhausting day, so whatever your beef with Charlie is—and I’m sure it’s well-founded,” Charlie frowns at that, “I’d appreciate it enormously if you could just leave us in peace—at least until I finish this lovely pint of Guinness.”

“You should get out of the way, Gramps, or you’ll get hurt and all,” Georges threatens.

“He’s right, you should go,” Charlie says.

To Charlie’s surprise, Olivier simply sighs, puts down his glass, and stands, walking calmly towards the door. There’s a piece of Charlie that’s a little saddened by the man’s sudden departure, but he’s got bigger concerns at hand, now.

“If you’re lookin’ for another rent boy, they’re on the corner down the street,” one of Georges’ buddies taunts at Olivier’s retreating back.

Olivier pauses in front of the pub door, suddenly reaching up to fasten the locks at the top. “Manners maketh man,” he says, punctuating each word as he turns each lock. A sick feeling pools in Charlie’s gut—Olivier doesn’t seem like a bad guy, and he wouldn’t wish Georges’ gang’s wrath on anyone. “Do you know what that means? Then let me teach you a lesson.”

With one smooth motion, Olivier uses his umbrella to fling an abandoned glass _behind_ him, squarely hitting Georges in the forehead and knocking him out cold.

Charlie’s jaw drops.

“Are we going to stand around here all day, or are we going to fight?” Olivier asks, advancing on the remaining men.

And then Charlie’s world view is completely flipped on its head.

♕

After having watched this finely-dressed gentleman dispatch of _six_ street savvy thugs with all the grace and poise and gadgets of a James Bond-esque spy, Charlie isn’t sure what to think anymore, except one thing.

There’s no way this man is simply a tailor.

Charlie tells him as much, as Olivier leads him back to the tailor shop—this time, he catches the name of the place. ‘Kingsman.’ “I’ve never been to a tailor before, but I know you’re not one.”

“Come with me,” Olivier says, motioning to a fitting room at the side. Charlie follows, seeing a set of three mirrors before him. “What do you see?”

Charlie shrugs, taking in the stark contrast between Olivier’s polished suit, and his own sagging jeans and oversized sneakers. “Nothin’. I see nothing.”

“Do you know what I see? I see a young man with potential. Huge IQ, great performances at school and in the marines, but you gave it up. Drugs, petty crimes, never had a job. It set you on a certain path—but you needn’t stay on it. Are you up for a new opportunity?”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at him. This is starting to sound like a lecture—but after what he’s just witnessed at the pub, he has to admit he’s intrigued. He shrugs, nodding.

Olivier reaches out and places a hand on the mirror, which suddenly speaks at them. “Welcome, Athos.” The room then turns into a lift of sorts, kind of like a ride at Disneyland.

“Athos? Like the Musketeer? I thought your name was Olivier,” Charlie says.

“Athos is a code name,” Olivier— _Athos_ says, the now-familiar half-grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “As you may have surmised by now, your father was part of a special organization, not simply the military or a government-run counter-intelligence group. Kingsman is an international intelligence agency, operating at the highest level of discretion. We are the Musketeers branch. One of our agents, d’Artagnan, was recently killed in action.”

The lift seems to take them down for a long time, until it ends at what looks like a private line of the subway system. A small, two-seated train car waits for them inside the line.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” Charlie asks, suddenly. “I mean, is this how you get new agents—talk to the dead ones’ children? I don’t know if you haven’t noticed, but I’m not exactly a suit-and-tie, superiority complex kind of guy. Why me?”

“As I mentioned before, I believe it has something to do with _potential_.” The doors close behind them as they board the waiting subway car. “Kingsman has been around for a long time, and with age sometimes comes a lack of keeping up with the times. You appear to have a sense of honor, but you aren’t tied down by convention. I think we could use an agent like you in the field.”

“I still don’t understand how you chose me. Your boss is really okay with this?” He gestures to himself.

Athos smirks again. “Ah, I should clarify—you haven’t been chosen _yet_. You’ve been given an opportunity, at this stage—an opportunity to prove me right.”

The subway speeds through its tracks, and when it stops, Charlie has to do what he can to keep from gawking at the sight that greets him when the doors open again. Clear glass windows lead to a giant hangar filled with all sorts of high-tech weaponry and transit.

“Your father had the same look on his face when he first came here,” Athos says. “As did I. Come along now, we’re late.”

“Late for what?” Charlie asks; he can’t bring himself to stop looking around and focus on where they’re going. He almost misses the fact that Constance is standing by the door that they’re walking towards.

“Charlie!” she exclaims, smiling brightly. “We were afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

“Wait— _she’s_ in on this too?” he asks, incredulous.

Athos actually _smiles_ , this time.

“Quick, get inside before they start without you,” Constance says, ushering Charlie into the room—more like a bunker, where there are eight others standing around.

Almost immediately after Charlie stumbles in, another man comes up behind them and orders, “Fall in!”

Marines training taking over, Charlie shifts to stand in the forming line alongside the other eight, back straightening in attention. Charlie suddenly is starting to understand what’s going on here, and his heart pounds in anticipation of what’s about to happen.

“Welcome. As you all should know by now, we recently had a position for code name d’Artagnan open up. Now, you are about to embark on the most dangerous job interview in the world.”

And for the first time in a long time, Charlie has never felt so alive.

**_tbc?_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of quick notes, in case anyone's confused. Kingsman has this thing with code names vs. real names, so I did some digging and made sure each of our favorites actually have real names that make sense in the context of BBC or book/historical canon.
> 
> Charlie/Charles Castlemore is d'Artagnan  
> Olivier (de la Fère) is Athos  
> Rene (d'Herblay) is Aramis  
> Jean-Armand du Peyrer is Tréville  
> Isaac du Vallon is Porthos (not covered in this introductory piece)


End file.
